


Folie A Deux

by Decepticonsensual



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:23:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4847351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take one hotheaded captain who knows exactly what he wants, and one buttoned-up first officer who isn’t about to admit what he needs.  Mix well and heat up slowly.  Then stand back…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue:  T Minus Two

**Author's Note:**

> For abucketofprotons on Tumblr.

_See the motley crew advance_

_Led by Folly in the dance._

_\- Vauxhall Ballad_

No one falls in love in a moment.  That's fairy-tale stuff:  the shared glance, the unspoken understanding passing from one to the other, both struck at once, as if love were lightning.  No.

 

But there _was_ a moment of realisation – or rather, two.

 

Rodimus probably would have figured it out sooner, if he hadn't been so distracted.  After all, he'd felt the hitch in his engine when he'd discovered that the (tiny, cute, oh, Primus) bot sharing their cell was really Magnus; he'd screamed himself hoarse when Magnus had gone haring off to confront Tyrest; and he'd felt his fuel turn to acid in his lines when he'd spotted Magnus's headless body, left on the floor where he'd fallen, as if he were a – a thing.  A tripping hazard, Tyrest had called him.  Right before Rodimus had shoved a blaster under Tyrest's chin, and had fought down the urge to simply pull the trigger by reminding himself of what Magnus would do, what Magnus would have wanted.

 

But Rodimus didn't actually realise how he felt until he looked past the smouldering hulk of Tyrest's body, and saw Magnus – _Minimus Ambus –_ standing over him, gun still smoking.

 

“ _Ambus?_ ” he demanded, the new name unfamiliar and desperate on his glossa, and, in spite of his confusion, he felt a rush of relief and warmth that made him want to scoop this even tinier Minimus up and never let him go.

 

_Oh,_ thought Rodimus, with the easy acceptance of a child; of a soldier; of a mech who was probably about to die.  _That explains a lot._

_***_

Ultra Magnus's moment came a little later, and not all at once.  It crept up on him, like smoke.

 

He'd been trying not to look at Rodimus as Perceptor wired him into the killswitch – whether out of Magnus's own shame, or to avoid seeing Rodimus strung up like some primitive living sacrifice from the days before the Golden Age.  He'd been expecting Rodimus's anger from the moment he'd  made the decision to draw the _Lost Light_ to Luna-1, but it was only in this moment that he really felt he deserved it.

 

But, to his surprise, Rodimus's rage flared and immediately burned out.  Instead, he dimmed his optics, bent his head, and made a confession of his own.

 

About Overlord.

 

Magnus would berate himself later, but the first thought that came into his shocked mind was, _Rodimus knew more about what was going on onboard the ship than I did?  For_ months _?_

 

And then, out of nowhere, as he stared at the captain:  _It must have been eating him alive._

 

He should have been angry.  Rodimus had imperilled the entire ship out of a childish desperation to prove himself.  Magnus's own transgression was serious, but it was born out of a sense of duty –

 

– wasn't it?  The thought had troubled him, if he was honest, since long before his return to Tyrest.

 

_Not just duty.  Fear.  Fear that you were slipping, and that you liked it too much._

He made himself look at Rodimus, that ludicrously flashy armour, the wreath of wires like a crown.

_That you liked_ him _too much._

“Self-sacrifice is cheap, Magnus,” Rodimus told him in a voice that Magnus had never heard from him – low, flat, and far older than it had any right to be.  “It's a cheap way out.”  And his optics met Magnus's.

_Oh,_ thought Magnus, as a part of his processor so disused he almost didn't recognise it – almost, but not quite – lit up.  _Oh, no.  Oh,_ no.


	2. Don't Stand Next To A Quantum Engine When It's About To Flout The Laws Of Physics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Heroes start to deal with the fallout from Luna-1, and what it means for the Lost Light… and for the two of them. In which the best-laid plans of mice and Ultra Magnus go oft awry, especially when Rodimus is involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated R.

Ultra Magnus had a plan.

It’s minutely catalogued in the recesses of his mind, because that’s what calms him.  Every contingency spelled out, risk-assessed, and colour-coded, neatly filed away for later access.

It’s said that no plan of battle survives contact with the enemy, though, and this one doesn’t survive the first wild press of Rodimus’s frame against his, Magnus’s back thudding against the wall of Rodimus’s quarters with the force of it.

“Mmmmm.  Have you been thinking about this?” Rodimus murmurs, lips an inch from Magnus’s plating. His voice is a little staticky with high grade and arousal, but the words are vivid – almost too vivid.  “Bet you have.  All through the morning briefing…”  Fingertips rake down Magnus’s chest.  He knows that Rodimus can’t possibly feel his spark through the armour, but the smirk the captain aims up at him almost has Magnus believing that he can, just for a moment.  “All that time you were on duty…”  Rodimus is nuzzling into Magnus’s chest now, huffing warm air over the slender gaps in the armour.  “Every klik we just spent drinking in Swerve’s, I bet you couldn’t wait to drag me out of there.  Want to take me back here and throw me on the berth -”

“ _Rodimussss…_ ”  It comes out in a hiss, more helpless than stern, and Magnus’s head tilts back against the wall, his optics off-lining as he tries to get his bearings.  His gyros are reeling.  It’s uncomfortably like the few times he’s been overcharged, and he wonders momentarily if he’s going to pass out.

Rodimus takes advantage of Magnus’s position to reach up and loosely cup the side of Magnus’s neck, thumb rubbing tiny circles over the cabling at the base of his throat.  The other hand comes to rest on Magnus’s hip, holding him with surprising gentleness, in contrast to the dark whisper in his audials.   _“_ How many times have you been tempted to just bend me over my desk, hmmmm?  Or did you want to take me on the bridge, in the captain’s chair, with the whole crew watching?”

“That would be – highly inappropriate –”

Rodimus chuckles richly.  “So very, very inappropriate, Magnus, you’re right.  In fact, it would be so bad that you’d have to discipline me, wouldn’t you?”

Magnus struggles to control his ventilations. He knows it’s too much, too fast; a few touches, a few filthy words, and Rodimus has the excess charge practically crackling off of Magnus’s plating.  And yet, Magnus isn’t aroused.  He doesn’t know why.  By now, the heat should be pooling between his legs, his interface equipment humming smoothly to life, but instead, his entire body is flushed with that stifling heat. And Rodimus – well, to Magnus’s newly acquired facility with metaphor, it’s like trying to hold an open flame. Rodimus is – has always been – liquid fire, from the hot vents of his race car engine to the super-heated energon that fuels his flamejets, constantly licking through his frame without consuming him.  That’s the younger mech’s gift:  he can drive headlong through fire without it touching him, while everything around him burns to a cinder.

In a strange way, he’s doing it now.  Rodimus is running even hotter than normal, his panel scalding where it’s pressed against Magnus’s leg, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it, while Magnus feels as though he’s burning up.

Rodimus has noticed that Magnus’s panel is still cool – practically the only part of him that is – and nowhere near ready to open, so he redoubles his efforts.  A hot glossa trails over a seam in Magnus’s chest, dragging all the way down to his hip, and Magnus squirms.  And Rodimus _won’t stop talking._

“Is that how you want to play, Magnus?  Punish me for being a bad mech?”  The words come between open-mouthed kisses, tracing a path back up Magnus’s body.  “I mean, it would be  _so_ unbecoming a captain if I dropped to my knees, right there on the bridge, and sucked your spike until you overloaded all over me. It would be your  _duty_ to discipline me, wouldn’t it?  Put me in handcuffs – put me over your knee and spank -”

“ _Rodimus._ ”  Magnus manages to pull himself together just long enough to grab the captain’s shoulders. “Stop.”

Rodimus looks up, spots the expression on Magnus’s face, and actually  _cringes._ It makes Magnus’s spark to twist uncomfortably in his chest.  He holds still for a moment, waiting for his fans to clear a bit of the heat haze, unsure what to do… and now Rodimus is lifting his hands apologetically and backing away, and, in a panic, Magnus clings to him tighter.

“I – I just –” Magnus winces at the frank confusion on Rodimus’s face, but at least he’s not trying to pull away now.  “Could we take this – slowly?”

Rodimus’s smile is bright and entirely artificial. “Slowly!  Okay!  I can do slowly.”

He stretches up, standing on his tip-toes, and turns his face upwards; his lips brush against Magnus’s lower lip, once, then again, trying to coax Magnus’s mouth to his.  Magnus inclines his head obligingly, and lets Rodimus press soft, deliberate kisses to the bow of his mouth.

It’s still too much, the warm, pliable metal of Rodimus’s mouth and the way his optics flicker up, gaguing, looking for a sign of approval, between each kiss – but it’s not as overwhelming as it was, and Magnus lets out a shuddering ventilation as he fights for control of himself.  

After a while, he can feel his cabling start to loosen, and he ex-vents slowly against Rodimus’s lips.  He’s starting to become accustomed to the tickle of pressure and the heat of Rodimus’s proximity.  The sensations are on the knife’s-edge between pleasurable and dangerous, but that’s a vast improvement over the surge of overpowering heat.  Yes, Magnus could get used to this.

And no sooner does the thought cross his mind than Rodimus darts the tip of his glossa over Magnus’s lower lip, and when Magnus’s lips part by reflex, starts licking into his mouth.

Magnus whimpers involuntarily, and Rodimus pulls back with a grin.  “That better?”

It is.  It truly is.  Magnus’s interface equipment is beginning to heat, just a little, his valve slicking and the protocols for deploying his spike starting to send inquiring pings. He nods, unable to do much else, and Rodimus’s grin widen into something invitingly –  _demandingly –_  filthy.

“That’s what I like to hear,” he whispers, and before Magnus can protest that you cannot  _hear_ a nod, Rodimus has slipped past him – trailing a hand over Magnus’s hip in passing – and gone to drape himself over the berth.  “Now, we can keep taking this as slowly as you like… or not.”  He winks.  “You’re in the driving seat here, Magnus.  It’s completely up to you.”

And with that, he arches back, one arm thrown over his head, the other dangling alluringly over his thigh.

Magnus dawdles his way to the edge of the berth, trying not to wince at the look of expectation in Rodimus’s optics.

Magnus had a  _plan._

***

It seemed relatively simple at the time – almost refreshingly so.

They were in Rodimus’s office, discussing the fallout from the Luna-1… well, “incident”, as Magnus termed it, “disaster” according to Rodimus.  At least the captain wasn’t calling it an “adventure”.  Magnus wasn’t sure he could take that.

In fact, there was a grimmer set to Rodimus’s mouth than Magnus had ever seen.  He was digging at the surface of his desk with his knife again, but Magnus was finally starting to recognise the infuriating casual vandalism for what it was: a sign of deep, discontented thinking.

“So,” Rodimus began, so softly he could have been talking to himself.  “Tyrest and Pharma both.”

“Both?”

“Both vanished _._ I don’t like it.  And I don’t care if we destroyed that portal – things like that have a nasty habit of cropping up again.  Remember the Dead Universe, from back on Earth?  The thing Optimus and the rest of us thought we’d beaten back, and then it burst through years later, and Kup ended up  _dying_ to hold it off?  If those… creepy planet-things Skids saw want to get through to us, they’ll find a way.” He sighed.  “Everything we do comes back to haunt us, Magnus.”

The glyphs carved into the desk were a muddle, but Magnus thought he recognised one, if only because it had once been a feature of Decepticon graffiti almost as common as ‘You Are Being Deceived’ – a scrawled version of the old character for “betrayed”.

He felt a hot prickle spread through his body, and ruthlessly shoved down the reaction before it could show on his face.  “Will there be anything else, captain?”

“Yes.”  Rodimus’s knife scored an ugly new gash in a previously untouched stretch of metal. “It’s about what we discussed on Luna-1. Before we drained the Matrix.”

Magnus stood stock-still as Rodimus met his optics. If his commanding officer were to dismiss him for what he’d done, it would be only just.  Really, he should have handed in his resignation before now, only…

_Only Tyrest has fallen, and I have nowhere else to go.  And nowhere I want to be, more than here._

“Captain –”

“I’ve decided to tell the crew the truth about Overlord.”  

Magnus’s shocked silence made Rodimus smile weakly.

“And then we’re going to hold a vote, under Article 84, Section 7 of the Autobot Code.  You’ve heard of that one, right?”

Magnus ignored the crack.  “If you’re absolutely sure, sir –”

Rodimus raised a brow at the 'sir’, but then he grew serious again.  “Yes, I am.”

“Then you’ll need to appoint a returning officer to take charge of the vote.”

“You.”

“With respect, captain –  _not_ me.  I have a vested interest in the outcome.”

Rodimus’s gaze weighed him.  “Do you?”

“If you’re removed, I would assume command until a new captain could be chosen.”

Softly, the captain asked, “Is that what you want?”

“It’s not.  I never desired command.”  Magnus stepped closer, and braced his hands on Rodimus’s desk, keeping his optics averted. It struck him, up close, how intricate the captain’s doodles were.  “But I always assumed that, should it ever become necessary, I would be equal to the task. After Luna-1 – I was blind to what Tyrest had become, and I endangered the entire crew because of it.  I don’t deserve to command them.”

“That is complete slag, and you know it.”  Magnus looked up, startled, at the heat in Rodimus’s tone.  “You’d be a great captain.  Not that I’m in any hurry to get out of this chair, mind.”  Rodimus cracked a smile.  “Just – you would.”

Magnus dropped his gaze again, warmth and confusion flooding through him in equal measure.  Slowly, he traced one of the glyphs on the desk with his thumb.  “… Thank you.”

“And, frag, you might get the chance to prove it sooner than you think.”  Rodimus pushed himself to his feet, making a face.  “I’ll make the announcement tonight.  And then we give them – what, a week to decide?”

“Two weeks.”

“Right.  Okay.”

  
“Sir… Rodimus.  Are you certain you want to do this?”

“Why, Magnus, you sound like you have some kind of doubts about whether I’ll win.”  Once again, Rodimus’s smile was thin and, somehow, awful to see.  “I thought I could pull it off, you know? Protect them all.  No more deaths – that’s what I said to you.  But if I can’t do that, then they deserve to know the real risks of this quest… all the risks.  And they deserve to know who’s really leading them.”

“I must admit, I often wondered why so many people were willing to sign up to follow you,” Magnus mused.  Rodimus spluttered a bit, but Magnus spoke over him.  “But I think I understand, now.”

“It’s my bangin’ aft, isn’t it?”

“ _Captain!_ ”

“Sorry,” Rodimus said automatically, but he was smiling. One corner of Magnus’s mouth tugged up impudently, independent of the rest of his face and ignoring his processor’s stern admonitions.

“What I am  _trying_ to say is…”  Magnus grappled with himself.  “I don’t know what decision the crew will make, but… no one deserves to captain this ship more than you do.  And regardless of whether I am fit to take your place or not, I don’t want to.  I would rather be your second-in-command than a captain in my own right.”

Rodimus stared at him, then broke into a grin.  A real, full one this time, almost giddy. “ _My_ second-in-command,” he purred.  Magnus recognised the tone – it was the same proud, possessive way Rodimus had spoken about him to Thunderclash.  But where it had annoyed him them, it sent a shiver down his backstrut now.  Rodimus suddenly leaned over the desk, reaching up to stroke his fingertips lightly over Magnus’s cheek.  Magnus froze, his very engine stalling as those small, clever fingers smoothed over his temple.  “ _My_ Magnus.”

Magus lifted his own hand to cover Rodimus’s, less as an intentional gesture of acceptance and more because the heat of Rodimus’s hand was intoxicating, and he had a sudden impulse to soak up as much of it as he could.  But no sooner had he done so than Rodimus slipped his hand out of Magnus’s grasp.

“I know,” he said, even though Magnus hadn’t so much as opened his mouth.  “Regulations. You’re about to tell me that fraternisation between a leader and a second-in-command –”

“Is entirely acceptable, under the Autobot Code,” Magnus interjected.  

Rodimus gaped.  “Wait – what?”

“You’re thinking of the regulations governing ships on a wartime footing.  Given that the war is officially over, a different set of regulations is in effect. Consensual fraternisation is permitted, provided that the lower-ranking officer does not feel unduly pressured – which I do not – and that the relationship is logged with the participants’ supervisory officer.”

In a flash, Rodimus scrambled up so that he was kneeling on the desk, and more or less optic-to-optic with Magnus.  His own optics were positively glowing.  “ _Please_ let me be the one to tell Prowl we’re fragging.   _Please.”_

“You’re forgetting that I haven’t said yes to anything yet.”

Rodimus wrapped his arms loosely around Magnus’s neck and brought their foreheads together, barely touching.  “Yeah, you did,” he murmured.  “You looked up the regulation in the first place.”

***  
  


Shame, then, that that seemed to be the first and last moment when things between them felt simple.

Magnus sat at attention at the minuscule table, trying his best to avoid the captain’s optics, as he painstakingly formulated an answer to the question he’d been asked.

“It is… acceptable,” he finally managed.  “Though I harbour some doubts regarding whether it, in fact, meets the precise letter of the labelling standards established by the Autobot rationing division.”

If Magnus were more given to figurative language, he would say that he could  _feel_ Rodimus’s gaze on him.  As it was, he could certainly detect the puzzled, insistent push of an EM field against his own.

“Well,” Rodimus said at last.  “If that’s your answer to, 'How’s your drink?’ I probably shouldn’t ask what you think of the rest of the date.”

Magnus noticed the corners of Rodimus’s mouth quirking up, and wasn’t certain whether that made things better or worse.

He managed not to squirm, but only through sheer force of will.  “Why did you insist we come to Swerve’s?”

“Well, I wanted to take you out somewhere nice.” Rodimus pulled out his trademark grin. “But this is the closest we’ve got onboard.”

“It is very… public.”

“Are you saying you’d like to go somewhere more…  _private_?”  The captain’s tone was entirely innocent, but the wink he gave Magnus was anything but.

“Not before you complete the Request for Adjournment to Private Venue form.  In triplicate.”

Rodimus pulled his head back, his lips parting a little as he stared at Magnus, who ducked his head.

“That was intended as a joke,” he muttered, glancing up only when Rodimus burst into a startled laugh.  “You don’t need to humour me.  I’d prefer if you didn’t.”

Rodimus subsided at that, folding his arms and looking deliberately away.  If it were possible to sip a drink in a pointed fashion, that would be precisely what he was doing.

The blue “mood lighting” Swerve had recently installed for the evening and late night shifts at the bar – Magnus found it somewhat garish, though he was grateful for the added anonymity of the dim light – had the odd effect of muting Rodimus’s colours.  Combined with his thoughtfully furled-in EM field, it made Rodimus come across as irrationally transparent, slipping between there and not-there, like a sensor ghost… like he might vanish if Magnus reached for him.  Magnus was so used to the captain’s moods being clear and present, even when he was silent, that the distance unnerved him.

Then Rodimus turned back, and the glow of his optics – deepened by the blue light – was suddenly intense.  Magnus startled at the feel of a hand settling on his inner thigh.

“ _Rodimus,_ ” he hissed, glancing around furtively.  No one seemed to be paying much attention to them, probably convinced that their tête-à-tête was nothing more than a late strategy meeting.  

“Relax.”  The captain’s deep chuckle made Magnus blush harder.  “They’ve seen worse than this in here, believe me.”  His thumb snuck a little further up Magnus’s plating, rubbing small circles.

“That does not mean that you need to make a spectacle of us!”  On Magnus’s third sweep of the room, his optic caught Swerve’s; Magnus cringed, but the bartender merely held up the glass he was polishing and pointed to it, asking if they’d like another round.  Magnus waved him off.

Rodimus’s thumb pressed down on a seam, and Magnus choked.

“I wasn’t humouring you,” Rodimus went on, apparently ignoring his second-in-command’s reaction.  “That  _was_ funny.  It just took me a klick to realise you were joking, is all.”

“You’ve – you’ve teased me before about my commitment to proper paperwork –”  Magnus tried to shift his bulk to make sure that the position of Rodimus’s hand, which was becoming more indecent by the moment, was effectively shielded from the rest of the room.  This had the side effect of bringing his body closer to Rodimus, who didn’t look at all displeased by this turn of events.

“But you don’t usually join in!   _Ultra Magnus,_ cracking jokes about paperwork?  That’s practically sacrilege!”  Rodimus turned his hand, dragging his fingertips back down towards Magnus’s knee, and smiled as Magnus let out a barely-audible but mortifying little whine.

“That’s overstating the case,” Magnus said, taking hold of Rodimus’s wrist and carefully relocating his hand off of Magnus’s plating.

“Oh, really?  In that case, maybe you should have thrown in a fake reference to the Autobot Code to make it even funnier.”

Magnus drew himself up, forgetting to position himself as camouflage for a moment.  “Are you seriously suggesting that I should _falsify_ the  _Autobot Code_ for your amusement?”

Rodimus started laughing again, but there was a warmth to it that eased the initial churning in Magnus’s tanks at the sound.

The silence that settled between them once Rodimus was done was the most comfortable one of the evening.

“Magnus?”

“Yes?”

“You remember how you moved my hand a klik ago?”

“Yes?”

“You still haven’t let go of it.”

“… I know.”

***

Of course, the date  _was_ a strategy meeting, just not the way the others in the bar would have assumed.  It was meant to be the opportunity for Magnus to put the final touches on his plan, his multi-stage matrix, cross-referenced and indexed with a year-by-year accountability mechanism for each stage, for developing a relationship with Rodimus.

Rodimus – infuriating, glorious Rodimus, who is currently wriggling on the berth and staring up at him with heavy-lidded optics – managed to metaphorically burn that plan to the ground and dance on its ashes within five minutes.

Magnus is rather pleased with that metaphor.

He’s less pleased with his predicament, because the expectation in Rodimus’s gaze is starting to turn to concern, and the first tiny flare of hurt, and Magnus can’t stand that.  So he sits down on the edge of the berth, and reaches out.  He’s aiming for the captain’s thigh, at first, but somewhere along the way, the disbelief that this is really happening, that he’s really permitted to touch, takes hold and his hand ends up somewhere around knee level instead, thumb rubbing over the seams there.

Rodimus makes a pleased murmur in the back of his throat, at first, and shifts to bring more of his plating under Magnus’s hand. After a minute or two, though, he starts looking bemused.  He makes as if to reach for Magnus’s arm, but then pulls his hand back, apparently still intent on letting Magnus set the pace.

Magnus supposes he should be grateful for that. He appreciates the intention, certainly, but his helm is still spinning with the feeling of Rodimus’s plating beneath his fingers, with the buzz and sight and  _smell_ of him, oh, Primus, he can actually smell heat and lubricant and the early crackles of ozone coming off Rodimus and the sheer intimacy of that sets him reeling afresh. This is why he doesn’t drink; his filters are dangerously low, his hands don’t seem to be operating under his direct control and this is, without exaggeration, this is undoubtedly the longest period of time anyone has  _ever_ spent rubbing another person’s knee for anything apart from medical purposes –

All of which has him so on edge that when Rodimus smiles and says, “Wow, didn’t peg you for such a knee mech, Magnus,” Magnus feels something snap inside him.

“This is difficult enough without you  _mocking_ me,” he says, lifting his hand away.

“I’m not!  Wait, what do you mean  _difficult enough_?”  Rodimus is sitting up now, frowning.

Magnus doesn’t trust himself to answer that. Instead, he steels himself and trails his fingertips lightly up from Rodimus’s knee, up his inner thigh, lingering on the seams just below his hip.  Rodimus squirms in a gratifying fashion, until –

Magnus jerks away when he hears the muffled giggle. He can feel himself blushing, a deep, awful pink, and turns too late to try and hide it.

“No, I’m sorry, that wasn’t – it wasn’t  _you_  – it tickles, Magnus!”

“This is all just a joke to you, just –” Magnus shuts his mouth abruptly, before the words  _just like your command_ can escape. He’s being unfair, he  _knows_ he’s being unfair, but the thought of having Rodimus and then losing him through Magnus’s own awkwardness and fear is making him irrational.

“Well, excuse me for not treating every touch is a matter of life or death, unlike  _some people._ You look like you’re being led to your execution!”

Magnus folds his arms.  He can feel Rodimus shifting on the berth behind him, but doesn’t look around until the captain begins in a softer tone.  “Look, if you’re worried about the size thing –”

“I beg your pardon?”

“All I’m saying is, you’re not going to hurt me. I mean, if that’s it – if you’re scared you’ll be too big for me.  I’ve been with mechs your size before.”

It’s an intriguing admission – the list of mecha as big as Magnus is a relatively short one – but now is not the time to indulge his investigative instincts.  “I am relieved to hear it.”

“So…?” Rodimus scoots closer, pressing his chest to Magnus’s back and giving what Magnus can only interpret as a hopeful little wiggle.

Magnus pivots around and bends to kiss him, and for a blissful moment, everything seems  _right_ ; Rodimus is warm and pliant under him, eagerly receiving the tiny pecks without trying to direct them. He even lets out a moan, quiet and a little startled, which startles Magnus in turn.  The thought that Rodimus is making that sound because of  _him,_ that  _he_ drew it out, gives him enough confidence to wrap his arms around the smaller mech.  The way their bodies slide against and into one another, with no real boundary, terrifies and warms him at once.

And then, somehow, Magnus is leaning over Rodimus, who is on his back and gazing up at Magnus, and…

… that dreaded pause, again, while Magnus frantically tries to work out what to do.

After far, far too long, he reaches towards Rodimus’s waist.  Rodimus’s hand closes around his wrist.

Magnus looks up, surprised and a little afraid, to see Rodimus shaking his head.

“We don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Do you… not want to go ahead?”

Rodimus’s smile is wry.   _“I_ want to.  I just think it’s pretty obvious that you don’t.”

“Of course I do.”

“Magnus.  I don’t like it when you humour  _me,_ either.”

It’s all he can do to pull away, to bow his head, to try and re-establish a fragment of control over himself.  Not for the first time, he’s grateful for the Magnus armour, for its sheer stability; if a tremour goes through Minimus Ambus, the armour doesn’t show it.

“Come on.”  An arm settles around his shoulders.  “We can… let’s just recharge, okay?  That is – if you want to stay?”

Not trusting his voice, Magnus nods.


	3. Burning Up on Re-Entry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As if trying to regroup after one disastrous first date weren’t bad enough, Magnus also has to deal with the consequences of one of his shipmates finding out about his maybe-affair with the captain. Plus, we finally get to find out what the hell Rodimus was thinking during that date…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated PG-13.

When morning comes, Magnus is on his side, and Rodimus is curled in the warm hollow of his body.

 

Rodimus onlines his optics, and lies still for a moment, taking in his position.  Magnus is like a thick blue wall around him, blocking out the world – but in spite of the fact that Rodimus's berth isn't really big enough for both of them, Magnus has arranged himself so carefully that there isn't a single point of contact between their bodies.  They've finally gone to berth together, and Rodimus has never in his life felt more like Magnus's captain, and less like his lover.

 

He flings an arm over his optics, and lets out a soft groan.

 

Sweve's, the date, his spark pounding as he dared to sneak his hand onto Magnus's leg under the table – the excited dash back to his quarters – Magnus's mouth, so wide and warm under his own –

 

Rodimus cringes.

 

Throwing himself at Magnus.  The mech's impassive expression, in the face of every touch, every whispered insinuation, every weapon in Rodimus's considerable arsenal.  The shameless way Rodimus shivered at each polite caress, which, he realises now, were probably just Magnus trying not to upset him.  Lying down and practically begging Magnus to touch him, to take him, and, and – Primus, please, tell him he didn't actually say that thing about the size of Magnus's spike _out loud._

 

Oh, scrap.  He did.

 

Rodimus rocks very slightly, both hands pressed against his optics.

 

It's never been like this before.  Okay, so Rodimus doesn't have any illusions about how good he is at _relationships,_ but the physical side has never been the problem.  'Facing is like combat.  How to move, how to read the other person and anticipate what they want, what they intend – it's always come so naturally to him.  In the berth or on the battlefield, that's where the world drops away.  Every sense is heightened, and sensory stimulation flows straight into action, without conscious thought in between.

 

And then, as soon as it really matters, it all locks up like a malfunctioning t-cog under Ultra Magnus's grave, appraising optics.

 

It suddenly occurs to Rodimus that Magnus really should be awake by now.  He can't remember a day when the mech wasn't up at least an hour before the start of the first shift, getting a jump on the day's paperwork, sparring, practicing at the shooting range...

 

Magnus's ventilations are awfully shallow for someone who's supposed to be asleep.

 

“Maaaagnusss,” Rodimus sing-songs, leaning over him, careful not to touch.  “I know you're awaaaaake.”

 

Those huge blue optics online inches from his own, a faint ember deep within slowly flaring until it fills them, and Magnus is studying him from where he's sprawled out all over Rodimus's sheets, and _oh,_ Rodimus wants to kiss him _so badly._ He almost lets himself, swaying forward, but the memory of the night before stops him short.

 

“Hi.”

 

“Good morning,” Magnus replies, still intently searching Rodimus's face for... something.

 

Rodimus settles back down, propping his head on his hand.  “Having a lie-in?”  When Magnus's optics light up with something close to panic, he chuckles.  “You can, you know.  Neither of us are on shift this morning, remember?”

 

Magnus nods.  “Rodimus, I... last night...”

 

Rodimus flashes his brightest grin, though it costs him.  “Don't worry about it.”

 

For a moment, it looks like Magnus wants to say something more.  Instead, he reaches out hesitantly, and lifts Rodimus's hand from where it rests on his hip.  And then that stern, elegant mouth is brushing a kiss over his knuckles, just under the flame jets.

 

Rodimus wants to cry.

 

***

 

“And there are reports of the Black Block Consortia starting to pick off Galactic Council outposts at the edge of sector Q.”

 

Rodimus glances up from his carving.  “Hey, if it knocks the smug expressions off those stupid hats of theirs, I'm all for it.”

 

“The expressions on their _hats_?”

 

“What?”

 

“Rodimus –”

“Don't start with me; those hats are smug.  They're the smuggest hats I've ever seen.”  More softly, he says, “You think they should worry us?”

 

“The hats?”

 

“The BBC.  The hats just make me stabby.”

 

“We're unlikely to encounter them.”  Magnus taps his pad, and a 3-D star chart projects form it, rotating slowly above Rodimus's desk.  “Provided we stay clear of areas where they're known to operate – and their reach is limited – they may even prove beneficial.”

 

Rodimus toys with the knife thoughtfully.  “Good point.  The more time the Council spends chasing them, the less likely they are to show up on our doorstep to try and spank us for being naughty.”

 

There was a time, he remembers, when Magnus would have looked Sternly Disapproving at him for that remark, but now he simply nods, toggling the star chart closed and gathering the rest of his datapads from the corner of Rodimus's desk.  It might just be a shadow, but Rodimus could swear that a smile flickers briefly over Magnus's mouth.

 

It encourages him to push a little further.  “Or try and steal my first officer again.  Remember that?”

 

“As I recall, the offer lasted approximately twenty-eight minutes before the Council wrote me off as completely irredeemable, owing to my continued association with _you._ ”  Magnus slips a pad under Rodimus’s hand – the one not occupied with the knife – and a stylus between his resting fingers, and Rodimus flicks his optics down the form on the pad, nods, and signs.

 

“What can I say?  I’m a _terrible_ influence.”  He grins, and then, glancing up, falters just a little.

 

Magnus is watching him intently, face blank, but Rodimus can see a hint of colour growing in his cheeks.  They’re edging into dangerous territory again.

 

It's been three days since his disastrous attempt to take Magnus to berth, three days of trying so hard to be normal with one another, and Rodimus is sick of gritting his teeth and pulling back whenever he wants to touch.

 

“… aren’t I?” he asks softly, rising from his chair and walking around to perch casually on the desk, on Magnus’s side.

 

Magnus frowns, but he seems thoughtful rather than angry.  “Sometimes,” he says at last, gravely.  “And sometimes, your influence is what leads to great things.”

 

Rodimus blinks in surprise, but makes up for lost ground, scooting closer and walking his fingers coyly up Magnus’s chest.  “So you weren’t tempted to ditch me for the squishies?”

 

Magnus’s blush returns with a vengeance.

 

“Ultra _Magnus_!”

 

“I – the Galactic Council represented everything I believed I had a duty to serve.  There may have been a moment…”

 

Rodimus crosses his arms.  There’s a brief, awful tightening of his plating, less jealousy than sheer panic… but it’s over, and Magnus _didn’t_ leave.  He’s here.  He’s here with Rodimus.

 

One side of his mouth quirking up, he tilts his head to the right, then the left.

 

“Rodimus, what –”

 

“Trying to picture you in the hat.”

 

“You are _ridiculous._ ”  The deep rumble is surprisingly warm; and then Magnus is unexpectedly leaning in.  His optics still look hesitant, but there’s nothing merely polite about the way his frame is pressed against Rodimus’s, pinning him lightly to the desk, their armour practically sizzling at every point of contact.  Rodimus arches up eagerly to wrap one arm around Magnus’s shoulders, the other grazing his chest, over his spark.

 

Barely perceptible beneath his fingertips, the whirr of Magnus’s spark accelerates, and Rodimus in-vents sharply.

 

One massive hand is reaching to cover his own, now, powerful fingers intertwining with Rodimus’s slender ones.  Delighted and triumphant, Rodimus looks back up from their hands to meet Magnus’s gaze.  They’re inching even closer, Magnus moving slowly but not pulling back, and Rodimus can practically taste him –

 

There’s a cough from the doorway, and Magnus freezes in his arms.

 

“Well, don’t let me interrupt the staff meeting,” a rusty-at-the-edges voice drawls.

 

"Ratchet."  Rodimus reluctantly wriggles free of Magnus, opening up enough of a gap between their bodies to satisfy even Magnus's ideas of decency, surely - but he keeps his hand splayed on Magnus’s chest, a promise that they’re far from done.  "We were just -"

 

"Yeah, I don't care.  Need your approval for this outpatient treatment form."  The CMO strolls forward and sticks a datapad under Rodimus's nose, barely glancing up long enough to nod a greeting in Ultra Magnus's direction.  "Magnus."

 

The effect of even that moment of attention, however, is electric; Magnus twitches as if a current is being run through him, and pulls roughly away from Rodimus's touch to retreat to the other side of the room.  Rodimus stares after him for a moment, then drags his attention back to the present to glance over the pad and sign it distractedly.  "Yeah, that's fine.  Make sure you check it with Rung or whatever."

 

"Sure thing, Captain, not like I've been doing this job for six million years, that would never have occurred to me."  Now Ratchet  _is_ looking, with some concern, in fact, as his mouth keeps up a steady stream of sarcasm apparently without Ratchet himself having to be involved.  His optics dart from Magnus, who's turned away so that neither of them can see his expression, to Rodimus, and then they narrow.

 

 

"Anything  _else,_ Ratchet?" he asks, deepening his tone just a shade to slide into his best Captain Voice.

 

“No, no – just wanted to make sure everything’s okay here.  You know, I’ll be in my office late this evening if anyone needs to talk.”  Even though his gaze is fixed on Rodimus, the words are clearly intended for Magnus, given that the mildness of them contrasts with the way he’s glaring at the captain.

 

“We’re fine, Ratch, thanks.”  Rodimus watches the CMO leave, then lets out a long ventilation.

 

“ _Must_ you?” Magnus murmurs, still not looking at him.

 

“ _Me_?  Ratchet’s the one being an overprotective glitch.  What did _I_ do?”

 

“Apart from paw me in front of the Chief Medical Officer?  Rodimus, that was humiliating.”

 

 _“Humiliating.”_ The word tastes greasy and sour, like contaminated oil.

 

“I really thought you’d reached a point where I could trust you to – well, if not be fully professional, at least not behave like a complete _sparkling._ ”

 

“Primus’s rusty hatch, Magnus!  It was just a hand on your chest; it’s not like I had my glossa down your throat!”

 

“Do you seriously imagine that Ratchet wasn’t aware of what we – that we were about to –”

 

“ _Kiss_?  You can say the word, you know.  It’s not like Tyrest is going to suddenly jump out from under the desk to tell you off.”  Rodimus knows it’s too far, even as he says it; Magnus’s lips are pressed together so tightly that they’re practically trembling.  Well, _fine_ , Rodimus tells himself savagely.  Let Magnus be the one to feel something for a change.

 

“If you think that the only reason I have any sense of decency is fear of my former employer, than you are _very_ mistaken,” Magnus says icily.  “If this is the kind of thing you had in mind when you suggested that we become… involved, then –”

 

“Well, Pit, Magnus, what did _you_ have in mind?  That you’d politely let me touch you once in a while, as long as no one ever found out?”  Magnus’s optics flare with bright hurt, and Rodimus’s engine turns over sickly.  He can’t stop himself; before he even thinks about it, he’s wrapped around Magnus, cheek rubbing against his broad chest like a cyber-cat, feeling Magnus’s spark stutter even through the armour.  “Don’t you want me at all?”

 

Magnus’s massive frame crumples inward; and when he finally speaks, it’s soft, and it sounds like it’s taking everything he has.

 

“I am _trying,_ Rodimus.”

 

Rodimus breaks away and flings himself back down in the captain’s chair, pulling the knife out of the desk surface and starting to scratch away with it in frustration.  “Yeah, well, don’t knock yourself out on my account.”

 

“You’re the one who wanted –”

 

“I know!  Just – I know, all right?”  He digs into the metal of the desk viciously.  “You don't have to rub it in.  Let's just forget the whole thing ever happened.”  _Like you'll let me._

 

It might be better if Magnus made an acid remark to that effect, or even just crossed his arms and glowered – anything but that awful blank expression on his face.

 

It takes Rodimus several minutes of angry scribbling in the midst of an increasingly uncomfortable silence to realise that Magnus is actually _waiting for permission to leave._ Sighing, Rodimus bows his head over the hilt of the knife.  “Dismissed, Ultra Magnus.”

 

He doesn't bother returning the salute, and Magnus doesn't wait for him to.  He simply flees Rodimus's presence, as if it burns.


	4. Launch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The outcome of the leadership vote has Rodimus shaken up, though he’s determined not to show it. Ultra Magnus, though, knows when something isn’t right with his captain. It might be time for the universe’s most orderly mech to take a rather unorthodox approach…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated NC-17.

Ultra Magnus – the original Ultra Magnus, as Minimus-as-Magnus has always thought of him – had, in his career, occasion to listen to Senator Shockwave at his most passionate, before the shadowplay; to Optimus Prime, including the legendary speech he delivered on the day he received the Matrix, to rally the broken remnants of the Senate's forces against Megatron's advancing army; to Xaaron; even to Tyrest at the height of his abilities, delivering his famous entreaties for a code of warfare that could help stem the horrific list of war crimes that was growing longer on both sides by the day.  Each of those moments is immortalised in the disk of memories Minimus inherited with the armour, and he's reviewed them so often that it feels like he was there in person.  To be fair, Minimus himself has heard some astonishing speeches in his day, from Optimus, from Tyrest, from Megatron (Magnus can admire the technical skill even if he abhors the content)... and from his captain.  Even when he disapproved of virtually everything about Rodimus's command, Magnus still had to grudgingly admit that the captain's ability to captivate an audience is startling.  Rodimus has given some speeches on this journey that will undoubtedly go down in history – mostly those florid ones that Drift used to write for him, and that Rodimus (Magnus now knows) would rip apart and reconfigure on the fly, improvising based on the mood and the little, reactive murmurs of his audience.

 

This speech, though.  This may be the best one Magnus, at least this Magnus, has ever heard.

 

Voting was brief and efficient; a small mercy.  Xaaron stood as an impartial authority to oversee the process, but it's still Magnus's responsibility to read out the result.  He schools his expression through long practice as he mounts the steps to the dais.  Even when he announces the number of “yes” votes, and a sudden roar– a mix of boos, cheers, applause, hisses – from those among the crew who can add drowns out the rest of the announcement, Magnus stands stone-faced and pretends he doesn't feel weak with relief.

 

And then Rodimus gets up to speak.

 

It's not fiery, or ornate, or even all that eloquent; but it is, for the purpose, perfect.  He keeps it brief.  He speaks of failure, but not of defeat.  He says how proud he is of each and every one of them.

 

He says, “I'm sorry,” but he doesn't ask them to forgive him.  Not yet.

 

Instead, he talks about the quest, and how important it is – too important to abandon, but also too important to leave in the hands of a captain they can't trust.  _Most of you reaffirmed that trust in me today.  But I know that for many of you, I have a long way to go before you fully trust me again.  And I promise you now:  I will earn your trust.  I will be the captain you need me to be.  And I won't rest until each and every one of you knows you can count on me, from here to the gates of the Dead Universe._

 

And then he smiles, faintly.  ' _Til all are one._

 

***

 

Two hours later, when Rodimus answers the door to his quarters, the first words out of his mouth are, “Why are you tiny?”

 

Minimus glances up at him – still a novel experience, though not as uncomfortable as he once assumed it would be.  “After the vote, I thought, perhaps...”  How to explain it?  Rodimus looked flayed open when he heard the results.  It didn't seem correct to visit someone who'd been laid so bare while Minimus himself was still safely encased in his armour.  “I thought you might not want to be reminded of anything... official.”

 

Rodimus seems surprised, but he steps aside to let Minimus in.

 

There's a half-full engex cube sitting on the table, a few droplets of fuel slithering down it to pool carelessly beneath, but despite Minimus's immediate itch to put a coaster under it, he's quickly distracted by the datapads scattered all around it, covering every available surface.

 

No - not scattered, he realises.  Placed.  Star charts and security reports, deliberately positioned in relation to each other, forming a flat rendering of multi-dimensional space.  A map, of sorts, pieced painstakingly together, to replace the map they lost when Rodimus's half of the Matrix was destroyed.

 

"Grab a seat.  It's a weak energon spritzer, right?"  At Rodimus's cheerful question, Minimus nods and switches his attention away from the grid of data pads, watching the captain cross to the small bar he keeps at the back of the room.  Rodimus nudges two of the pads out of the way - carefully - and tips a half-shot of highgrade into a glass.  When he goes to top it up with crystalline coolant, Minimus catches a quick flash of the palm of his hand -  
  
Minimus is across the room in a quarter-klik, one hand wrapped around Rodimus's wrist.  
  
The captain starts at the touch, and then his optics go heavy, knowing; but he doesn't resist as his second-in-command turns his hand over, almost gently.  Two numbers are burned right into the golden metal:  89/101.  The lines are scored deep.  It's a fresh injury; there's no way this doesn't ache.  Minimus draws his thumb lightly over the 8, and Rodimus trembles slightly.

 

There was a time when Minimus would have launched into a blistering telling-off, scolding Rodimus for being so irresponsible with his body as to hurt himself this way, so cavalier about winning the vote that he’s actually inscribed his victory on his hand – not that Rodimus would have listened… but no, that isn’t right, he realises now.  Rodimus _always_ listened.  Just because he rarely did what Magnus chided him to do, doesn’t mean he didn’t listen.  He’s listening now, intently, to Minimus’s slow, deliberate ventilations, and watching him.

 

Minimus looks up in silent inquiry, and doesn’t let go of his hand.

 

Rodimus sighs.  There’s nothing triumphant in his expression as he looks down at the scar.  "I have to remember, Magnus."

 

Minimus glances at the datapad-map, and Rodimus nods.  "I've been trying to reconstruct what I saw when I had the Matrix.  It's not... it keeps shifting in my head..."  He drags his free hand over his face, the other still quiet in Minimus's grip.  "We need to get the quest moving again.   _I_ need to do that for them.  I have so much to… to make up for."

 

A bemused smile crosses Rodimus’s lips as Minimus twines their fingers together and tugs him over to one of the chairs, but the captain doesn’t resist as his second pushes him to sit, then drops into the chair across from him.  Minimus leans forward, briefly squeezing Rodimus’s knee.  “You'll win them over again.  You're very persuasive.”

 

“You sound like Prowl when he was trying to get me to take Overlord in the first place.”  Rodimus slides into the Autobot second-in-command's cold drawl.  “'I'm certain you'll find a way to reconcile Chromedome to the idea, Rodimus.  You're quite... _persuasive.'_ ”  In Rodimus's imitation, the word comes out sounding like Prowl is handling with tweezers and holding at arm's length, lest it drip something disgusting onto his plating.  “Persuasion's never been my problem, Magnus.”

 

“Then... what?”

 

Rodimus's quick smile is knife-thin, and somehow worse than if he hadn't smiled at all.  “Hanging on to people.  Eventually, they get fed up, or...”  The younger mech bows his head, studying his flame jets with unwarranted interest.  “Or I frag things up.  Make the wrong call, trust the wrong person.  And then I get to hear the whole, 'Oh, we never _really_ wanted to come along, you're just _so persuasive._ ’''  He lets out a low chuckle.  “Pit, that's what happened with us, isn't it?”

 

Minimus is genuinely bewildered by the sudden shift in topic.  “What?”

 

“Come on.  I talked you into going out with me.  I presented it as a done deal, even though you hadn’t made up your mind yet, because I didn’t want you to say no.  And you tried so _hard_ to like me that way – you said so yourself.”  He sighs.  “Don't do that, Magnus.  Don't twist yourself in knots trying to feel something you don't, just because you don't want to let me down.  I'm not a sparkling – I can take it.”

 

Minimus gapes and, just for a klik, wishes he were big enough right now to smack Rodimus upside the head.

 

Only a klik, though, before the feeling crumbles under a wave of sympathy and guilt.  (Thinking metaphorically seems to come easier when he's out of the armour.)  It's not as though Rodimus has made some wild intuitive leap here.  He's acting quite rationally, on evidence, and if Minimus were only seeing his own actions from the outside, he might reach the same conclusions; but oh, _Rodimus..._

 

Minimus pauses, weighing his words.

 

“What you need to understand,” he says finally, “is that receiving the armour changed me.  In terms of... relationships.”

 

Rodimus tilts his head, looking as though a few loose bolts have suddenly slid into place.  “Wait... you mean that as Magnus, you haven't actually got any –”

 

“No!”  Magnus practically springs forward, cheeks flaming as he moves to intercept Rodimus's all-too-eloquent crotch-wards gesture.  “No, that's not – why would you _ever –_ ”

 

“You just said!”

 

“That is _not_ what I meant.”  Minimus finds himself half-out of his chair, a restraining hand on Rodimus's wrist.  He looks down at it, and the captain follows his gaze.  Almost reluctantly, Minimus lets go, and stares at his hand as it decorously returns to his lap.  “I meant, after becoming Ultra Magnus, I suddenly had far more... offers, than I had ever had as Minimus Ambus.”  He smiles a little.  “They weren't really interested in me, you understand.  Some wanted to curry favour with the higher ranks; some thought they could buy leniency that way.  Some were simply drawn to size and power, or to the fantasy of a... a stern disciplinarian.”  _Like you,_ he thinks, but it's fond.  Rodimus might find the idea of a strict cop taking a naughty prisoner to task appealing, but Minimus is certain, now, that that isn't the only thing Rodimus wants from him.  “And even if I thought their interest was genuine, I couldn't return it.  Not with such a strategically vital secret to keep.”  He makes himself look at Rodimus, who's staring at him raptly.  “I got very, very good at saying no.  If I hadn't been interested, that's what I would have done, without hesitation.”

 

“Then what –”

 

“What I am not used to,” Minimus continues, as if he might lose his nerve if he stops, “is saying _yes._   I... have very little practice giving in to my feelings, and I found the experience... overwhelming.”

 

“So...” Rodimus draws the words out, as if weighing them one by one.  “You don't want me to touch you, not because you don't want me, but because you want me too _much_?”

 

Minimus winces, hearing how dubious it sounds, but Rodimus doesn't sound scornful.  If anything, he sounds like he's considering it.  Minimus runs through all the evidence he can possibly present to make his case, then suddenly blurts out:  “I write poetry.”

 

“You _what now_.”

 

“A pre-war hobby.  I've only recently gotten back into it.”  Reaching into a subspace pocket, Minimus reluctantly draws out his datapad of newer works.  For a long moment, he just holds it.  Then, with aching slowness, he extends his hand.  “Here.  The third and the ninth ones are about you.”

 

Rodimus takes the pad carefully.  Glancing at the front cover, he smiles a little – the warning signed by Ultra Magnus and the byline by Minimus Ambus – and then he scrolls to the third poem.  His brow furrows, and Minimus supplies, “The title is in the Primal Vernacular, but the rest of the poem is in Neocybex.”

 

“What does it mean?”

 

“It's an old term for a captain.”  The connotations of the word are a little more complex than that, but Minimus figures he's baring his spark enough for one day.

 

Rodimus reads in silence, his lips occasionally shaping a word or two, trying them out, tasting them.  From time to time he frowns.  Minimus is conscious of every strut in his body tensing, aware that he's staring, but curiously unable to turn away.

 

Eventually, Rodimus lowers the datapad.

 

And, dropping into a crouch so that he and Minimus are optic-to-optic, he throws an arm around Minimus's shoulders and clutches him close, their helms resting against one another.

 

“I can't believe you -” Rodimus stops and swallows, his voice husky.  “I… _Magnus…_ ”

 

Minimus simply nods, trusting that Rodimus can feel the motion, even though his optics are shuttered.

 

The captain's ventilations are hot against the bare, sensitive plating of Minimus's cheeks and throat.  If he thought that the heat of Rodimus's body was overwhelming when felt through the armour, now it's practically searing right through to his bare protoform.  And yet – there's something comforting about that heat, all around him now, cradling him.  It feels natural to turn into the warmth.  Minimus nuzzles closer, tilts his head, and...

 

… Rodimus is pulling away, shooting him a thousand-watt smile that looks a little fragile around the edges.  “Sorry!  I – was that okay?”

 

“ _Yes._ ”  Minimus is almost startled by the urgency in his own voice.  He wants the warmth back, but more than that, he wants to know that Rodimus understands.

 

The captain’s smile softens – and before he can react, Minimus finds himself being pulled close.  He can feel the hot whirr of Rodimus’s spark, the supple curves and sleek metal of his body – this close, this unprotected, he almost imagines he can feel the super-heated fuel running through Rodimus’s arms and fingers, making his touch so dangerously, deliciously warm, that leashed fire capable of reducing living metal to slag.  Minimus burrows closer into that warmth, and becomes aware that Rodimus is just holding him, not moving.

 

Hesitantly, he lifts his arms to wrap around Rodimus’s waist.  In the armour, he’s afraid that he could snap his slender captain like a twig if he isn’t careful, but in his true form, he has to stretch to reach all the way around.

 

Rodimus all but melts against him, curling so that his helm is resting on top of Minimus’s; Minimus can feel Rodimus’s mouth curving into a smile against his plating.  “And what about this?” Rodimus purrs in his audial.  “Is this okay?”  It’s followed by the faintest brush of a warm, open mouth over Minimus’s neck cabling, sending crackles of electricity straight down his spinal strut.

 

Minimus makes a strangled noise, but clutches Rodimus’s arms when the captain tries to pull away.  “That – yes.  Very much okay.”

 

“More?”

 

“ _Please._ ”

 

Minimus tilts his head back and pants through his vents as Rodimus’s mouth and glossa start to explore his throat, wriggling into gaps between cables and suckling gently on sensitive connectors.  As before, Minimus has the sense of being watched intently, but it doesn’t make him feel pushed to perform, as it once did.  Rodimus is taking his time, clearly revelling in every hitched ventilation, every subtle push into his touch.  A sharp gasp earns Minimus a smirk, flashed and then quickly hidden against his neck, as that clever glossa returns to licking a wide stripe up towards Minimus’s left audial.

 

Rodimus eventually sits back on his heels, his own ventilations almost as ragged as Minimus’s.  “Still okay?”

 

Minimus’s processor is buzzing with static, but he manages to nod.

 

“And you’ll tell me if it’s not?  Right away?”

 

“Rodimus,” Minimus asks gravely, “has there ever been a scenario where you did something that wasn’t okay, and I failed to let you know?”

 

And then Rodimus is laughing, really laughing, and the last trace of that awful brittleness is gone, and it’s such a relief that Minimus reaches out, cradling Rodimus’s face in both hands, and kisses that laughing mouth.

 

Rodimus’s engine sputters, and he makes a sound deep in his throat; Minimus starts to pull back, reluctantly, but then Rodimus’s mouth opens under his, and the tip of Rodimus’s glossa is just barely flickering over his lower lip.  Minimus returns the touch inexpertly, feeling a bit foolish as he licks at the edges of Rodimus’s lush, infuriating mouth, but Rodimus appears to be enjoying it, from the way his arms tighten around Minimus.  Emboldened, Minimus slides the tip of his glossa into that mouth; the angle is wrong at first, and their noses jostle and Minimus nearly gets his glossa bitten, and he can _feel_ the first notes of a laugh start to bubble up in Rodimus’s chest, and everything in Minimus wants to pull away in shame… but he thinks of Rodimus’s bright, burning optics, wounded and trying so hard not to show it.  So he tries once more, and tilts his head a little further, and –

 

– _oh_ –

 

– _there –_

The nascent laughter turns into a loud engine rev that vibrates through Minimus’s entire body, and then Rodimus’s hands are sliding under his legs and lifting him to the nearest table (datapads go flying in all directions, prompting a sharp, “ _Rodimus!_ ” and a distracted, “I remember where they’re all supposed to go, don’t worry!”).  It’s a little dizzying how effortlessly Rodimus can lift him, and how big those hands are, wrapped around his thighs.

 

Rodimus is clearly thinking something similar, because he breathes, “You’re so _tiny._ ”

 

“You like the armour.”  It doesn’t surprise Minimus, but it does sting, just a bit.

 

“No!  Well, yes, I do, but not more than I like you like _this._ ”  One hand smooths over Minimus’s thigh and glides upwards to his waist, leaving contrails of heat in its wake.

 

“Rodimus, you should know I haven’t –”  The words break off in a faint whine as Rodimus’s hand flattens against his abdomen, and every drop of that intoxicating heat suddenly pools directly behind Minimus’s panel.  “That it’s been a very long time since my last – encounter of this nature.”

 

“Mmm-hmm.”  Rodimus is already bending, nuzzling at the thin green plating over Minimus’s spark.  The jolt it gives him borders on pain, as if he reached into the  _Lost Light’s_ circuitry and closed his fingers around a live wire.  Minimus lets out a muffled cry, and Rodimus leans back, looking at him questioningly.

 

Minimus hooks his fingers behind Rodimus’s helm, stroking, trailing wondering fingertips over the intricate crenellation.  Seizing the opportunity while his processor is still relatively clear, he says, “I only mean that I don’t wish to disappoint you.”

 

A strange, soft expression crosses Rodimus’s face.

 

“Is  _that_ what you’ve been worried about?”

 

Minimus frowns.  “Well… yes.”

 

The kiss Rodimus gives him is barely there; it’s a flicker of air and heat, ghosting over his lips, in the way that mechs sometimes kiss holy relics.  It makes Minimus shiver.

 

And then the captain’s mouth is trailing down his chin, his throat, his chest.  “How do you want this?  Do you want to spike me?  Want me inside you?”  He licks Minimus’s plating playfully, and earns a quiet gasp and a wriggle, as Minimus tries to get closer.  “Want my mouth on you?”

 

“ _Yes._   Please, Rodimus.”  Minimus’s interface equipment has been pinging him for permission to open for minutes on end, and now he finally grants it, sliding his panel back.  His optics deliberately find a far corner of the room to focus on as he does so, and his cheeks heat; his gaze only flickers back, hesitantly, when he hears Rodimus give a low, lascivious hum of approval.  Which is how he comes to be looking into his captain’s optics at the instant when Rodimus ducks down and presses his glossa to the lip of Minimus’s valve.

 

Minimus arches off the table, his engine full-on _stalling_ , and Rodimus pulls back immediately, running soothing hands over Minimus’s thighs.

 

“Too much?”

 

“No, don’t stop!”

 

That obscenely talent glossa returns, lapping at his exterior nodes, tracing teasing patterns.  Minimus cycles air desperately, feeling as though he’s going to melt.  And then Rodimus pauses to slide the very tip of his glossa into Minimus’s valve, pushing against the anterior node from behind while he suckles on it softly.  Minimus’s engine roars, and he lets out a wanton moan.  A second later, he’s got one hand clapped over his mouth as he blushes furiously.  Rodimus’s head pokes up from between his legs.  The captain’s optics are heavy-lidded.

 

“ _Mmmm,_ just keep making those noises, Magnus.”  And Rodimus licks his lips in a way that does nothing to stop Minimus blushing.

 

He shouts when Rodimus’s glossa thrusts further into his valve.  It feels huge, like some thick tentacle filling him up, expertly working every node and circuit cluster.  Meanwhile, Rodimus’s fingers have wrapped around his spike, and the double stimulation is too much.  Rodimus’s touch is scorching, it’s turning Minimus’s fuel to fire in his lines, it’s going to burn him alive; he can feel his core temperature reaching critical –

 

– and then Minimus’s body seizes as his entire sensory net erupts.

 

He comes as if the overload is being ripped out of him, a searing flash that whites out his vision.  When he returns to himself, he’s sprawled strutless across the table, and Rodimus’s voice is saying, “Frag _me,_ you’re hot like that.”

 

Minimus groggily onlines his optics.  Rodimus is grinning, his face smeared with lubricant and splattered with transfluid.  When he notices Minimus looking, he snags a cleaning cloth out of his subspace, but Minimus sits up and grabs his hand to stop him.  Then he gently tugs Rodimus close, and kisses him, steeling himself to be disgusted by the taste of his own fluids on Rodimus’s mouth… but it’s not as bad as he imagined, just a faint musk of oil and ozone.  And even if it had been, the way Rodimus ex-vents and leans into him would still have been worth it.

 

Rodimus stands to finish cleaning himself up, which brings Minimus almost optic-level with his (it turns out) wide open panel.  Rodimus’s erect spike is as flashy as the rest of his frame, all reds and golds, with ornate strings of biolights lining its rather impressive length, and trailing down to ring his valve.  He’s also wet enough already to make his valve lights glisten, and the thought that Minimus himself – that just the sight and soundand _taste_ of him – brought Rodimus to this state is all but overwhelming.

 

Very slowly, he reaches out to anchor a hand on Rodimus’s hip, then gestures towards his spike.  “May I…?”

 

Rodimus glances down, tosses the cleaning cloth away, and smiles his dirtiest smile.  “I’ve got a better idea.”  And he turns and saunters across the room, draping himself across the berth invitingly.

 

His post-overload haze abruptly clearing, Minimus feels a cold prickle of dread as he crosses the room and climbs onto the berth after him (something that requires less care when he’s out of the armour, but a great deal more effort).  This is all too familiar – Rodimus laid out below him, all sensuous lines and teasing optics, and Minimus without the faintest idea where to start.  But just as he begins to worry, he feels Rodimus’s fingers entwine with his, and guide his hand to wrap around Rodimus’s spike.

 

Minimus in-vents sharply at the intimate heat of the metal, and stares, fascinated, at the way the biolights’ shifting colours respond to his touch.  Rodimus props himself up on his other hand and begins to move their joined fingers in a sure, rough rhythm.  “This is what I like,” he whispers against Minimus’s audial.

 

Not that Minimus needed to be told:  Rodimus’s ventilations are growing ragged, and the tip of his spike is starting to leak fluid, slicking the delicate plating.  Stroking it feels the way it sometimes felt to drive in a heavy rain, back on Earth – skating over the sleek, wet surface at high speed, barely keeping control.  Dangerous and wrong and exhilarating all at once, and suddenly Minimus is kissing Rodimus, even as he works his spike, and there’s a frantic edge to it he didn’t know he was capable of.

 

Rodimus groans into Minimus’s mouth, then drops his hand to the berth and clutches at the sheets, as if he’s holding on.  His hips twitch forward with every stroke, pushing into Minimus’s touch.  Wanting to give him more, Minimus slides his other hand between their bodies and grazes Rodimus’s valve.  The response is unmistakable.  Rodimus cries out, practically squirming into Minimus’s lap in an effort to get his hand to go deeper.  Minimus obliges him, sliding two long, slender fingers into that soaking valve, and Rodimus flops backwards, panting, and chokes out, _“Magnus –”_

Minimus dimly registers that his own spike is hard once more, but pushes the thought away, focusing on the slippery slide of Rodimus’s spike in his grip and on swirling his fingers as he thrusts, trying to map all the spots in Rodimus’s valve that make the young captain grunt or whine or slam his helm back against the berth.  That is, until –

 

“I want you in me.”

 

“What?”  Minimus’s rhythm falters, and he chides himself silently.

 

“I want your spike.”  Rodimus is watching him through languorous blue optics, and the captain’s voice is husky.  “I want to feel you overload inside me, feel your hot transfluid filling me up.”  One gold fingertip rakes from the base of Minimus’s spike to the tip, and Minimus stops moving completely as a shudder overtakes him. 

 

“I –”  Minimus’s spike is aching; but he remembers what Rodimus said about being with mechs the size of Ultra Magnus.  “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

 

“ _Frag_ yes.  Only if _you_ think you’d like it,” Rodimus purrs, “but I’ve got a feeling you will.”  He turns his hand and strokes the back of it over the underside of Minimus’s spike, the residual heat of the flamejets making Minimus jump and whimper.  “What do you say?  Want to try burying that pretty spike of yours this hot, wet little valve?”

 

Minimus frowns and curls downwards to look at his own spike; Rodimus laughs at his expression, but quickly muffles it.  “Yeah, Magnus,” he says, clutching the spike loosely and running his thumb over the head.  “I said pretty.  You’ve got such a nice design; I could trace these –” his fingers circle one of the green scales accenting the white length – “for hours.  And these ridges here –” The plating in question flares at his touch.  “I bet these would feel amazing inside me.”

 

Minimus can’t quite stifle a soft moan.  His spike twitches eagerly in Rodimus’s hand.  Rodimus looks up with a roguish smile.

 

“Plus, I can tell that he likes me.”

 

“Did you just use a personal pronoun to refer to my interface equipment?”

 

“If you let me ride it, I promise, I will call it _whatever_ you want,” Rodimus says solemnly, getting to his knees and looking with pleading optics at Minimus.  Minimus swallows and nods.

 

At a loss for how to proceed, he’s surprised – and a little relieved – to be immediately shoved onto his back, Rodimus straddling him and bending to kiss his throat.  Then Rodimus is arching up, one hand cradling Minimus’s spike, and slowly lowering his dripping valve over it –

 

Minimus hisses as that wet heat swallows his spike.  It’s not quite as overwhelming as Rodimus’s mouth on his valve, but the sight of Rodimus moving above him is riveting.  That striking form sketches a long, sinuous wave, lifting almost off of Minimus’s spike and then dropping back down.  It reminds Minimus of a dancer he saw in Iacon once, before the war – and then Rodimus starts to move faster, and Minimus forget everything but the tight grip of Rodimus’s valve and the undulation of his body, and that warm, rich voice crackling with static as Rodimus moans.

 

“Yes – _yes_ – that’s so good, that’s perfect, _Magnus,_ you feel so good – wanted this for so long, you don’t – that’s right, frag me deep – _Magnus yes_ –”

 

Minimus manages enough coherence to reach up and wrap his fingers around Rodimus’s spike, copying the movement Rodimus showed him, and he’s rewarded when Rodimus yelps and picks up the pace even further, slamming his hips down with every stroke.  Minimus grunts, and hooks his fingers into the ridge of Rodimus’s hip for purchase, the other hand working Rodimus harder.  Rodimus is far gone, he can tell:  head thrown back, loud cries interspersed with broken renditions of Magnus’s name.  Minimus is just wondering how long he himself can hold out when Rodimus stiffens, arching like a bow, and overloads all over Minimus’s hands and chest.

 

Minimus’s own overload rushes over him abruptly, triggered by the sight and the sound and the feeling of Rodimus’s valve spasming around his spike.  He breathes a quick, startled, “ _Rodimus –”_ and then it’s done.

 

Rodimus climbs down, a little gingerly, and stretches out on the berth next to him.  They lie without speaking, fans whirring, for a long moment.

 

“I’ll go and wash up,” Minimus finally says.

 

He starts to rise, only to find that Rodimus has snagged his hand.  With Minimus watching, the captain draws it to himself and gives it a slow, almost formal kiss.

 

Then he lets go and lolls back on the berth.  “You can use my washracks, if you want.”

 

Minimus tries not to notice how Rodimus lights up when he returns – as if the captain had some doubt he would be coming back – but doesn’t object when Rodimus curls around him and cuddles him like a stuffed toy for the rest of the night.  


***  


Minimus _does_ have a few (loud) objections when he finds the Rodimus Star on his desk, with a note carved into the surface saying, _I think you know what you did to earn this one!  R._  
  
But that doesn’t mean he’s not going to wear it.  It is a decoration awarded by his captain, after all.


End file.
